Cold Hearths
by Calenheniel
Summary: [Hans x Elsa; oneshot.] She doesn't visit that room of the castle often, and neither does anyone else these days. But every time she goes, she sees him—and he stares at her—and she wants it, needs it, because he's the only one that looks at her that way, and, perhaps, the only one that ever will.


**Author's Note:** Just a short, conceptual piece I concocted over the course of the past two days, so please send questions and replies if you have any. I'll do my best to answer them. Otherwise, please enjoy!

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She's not sure how long it's been since she first started reading—it could have been a few minutes, or hours, by then.

She always loses track of time in that particular room of the castle; she wonders if that's because she rarely visits it—or because _anyone_ rarely visits it, these days.

_Anna wanted to have it boarded up._

Her gaze is drawn from the book in her lap to the fire, still crackling in the hearth a few feet away.

_I guess I haven't been here _that_ long_.

Her blue eyes are fixed on the flames, red and orange and bright with life, and even though she's always been a creature of the ice and cold, there's something _hypnotic_ about the way they dance over the wood kindling—something that's unlike anything _she_ could conjure.

"The book's not holding your interest, Your Majesty?"

She shrugs at the question, her gaze never leaving the fire.

"I just got distracted, that's all."

He's just on the periphery of her vision, now, as he circles around the back of her armchair before sitting in the one opposite, his eyes likewise attracted to the only source of warmth and light in the room.

He smiles a little. "You get distracted a lot whenever you come here, it seems."

She finally turns to regard him, her cheeks lightly pink with ire.

"You _know_ why."

His green irises stare back at her, and there's a coldness in them that makes her shiver.

"I do."

Her lips purse at the short answer, but she doesn't pursue the matter any further, looking back into the glow of the hearth.

_We've been over it _so_ many times, after all.  
_  
She sighs at that, resigned, and there's silence for a while before he speaks again.

"What were you thinking about, Your Majesty?"

Unexpectedly, slowly, a smile creeps onto her lips. "I was wondering if it were possible to be born with fire powers."

He chuckles at the idea. "Well, why not?"

Her eyes warm at his laughter, small as it is. She always finds it comforting, somehow.

_Reminds me of Papa's._

"Perhaps you wish you had that set of powers, instead?"

She scoffs at the question, though she knows it's just as facetious as everything else he ever asks her.

"Good _Lord,_ no. Ice is difficult enough to control."

He laughs a little again and rises from the chair, standing by the hearth. The flames throw into sharp relief the impeccable whiteness of his jacket and trousers, the intricate patterns stitched into the sides of his garments, the silkiness of his light green cravat, the red sash over his chest.

His gloved hands hover over the fire. "I suppose you're right, really."

She watches him curiously, wondering how he's not _burning hot,_ standing so close to it; then, when she remembers, she reddens, feeling stupid for getting caught up, just like she always does.

"Come by the fire, Elsa."

Her blush deepens at the request—he doesn't call her by her first name very often, and when he does then, his voice is deep, and low, and _smooth_.

She reluctantly stands from the chair, closing her book and laying it on the side table. She crosses the short distance between them, though she's still not standing as close to the fireplace as he is.

_It's too _hot.

His eyes are on her all the while, and she can't help it when her own meet them, shyly at first—and then with confidence, with pride, with _irritation_.

"You shouldn't be here," she tells him firmly, her gaze narrowing.

He smiles dimly. "But here I am, all the same."

Her hard look falters at the reply, and inexplicably, she feels a sudden rush of regret surge through her. But the fact that she feels anything at all besides a deep, moral _outrage_ at the man in front of her only makes her more annoyed.

"Why?"

His brow rises. "I could ask _you_ the same thing."

She flushes pink. "I asked you first."

He sighs at the childish retort, and finally looks away from her, back at the fire. His left hand comes to rest on the mantelpiece, and it flexes within the glove.

"Unfinished business, I suppose," he replies, smirking.

Her eyes darken. "Don't joke about that."

He glances at her with icy amusement. "But isn't that why you're here, too?"

The temperature in the room dips at the question, but he merely smiles at her.

"That trick doesn't work on me anymore, Elsa. Surely, you must know that?"

She frowns, and the cold abates somewhat. "I don't have any _'unfinished business'_ here," she answers at last, her lip curling.

His look is sceptical. "Don't you?"

Her mouth sets in a firm line.

**"No."**

He draws closer to her, and takes her gloved hand in his, that smirk on his lips again.

"Then what am I doing here, Your Majesty?"

She swallows uneasily, her eyes widening—and then relaxing again—as his right hand comes to rest at the base of her blue glove, near her elbow, while the left lightly holds her wrist.

_What am I doing here?_

Slowly, _easily,_ he slides the glove down her arm, and his fingers, cloaked by white cloth, are trailing her skin as they move along it.

The sensation makes her shudder, and her eyes close for a moment—but when they open, the glove is gone, and her skin is bare, pale—and his thumb is drawing circles in her palm, rubbing the cool cloth over it again and _again_.

_Why won't you ever take _yours_ off, too?_

That's what she wants to ask him, among so many other things; but, as usual, her lips won't move, and her voice won't come out, and his stare is _hypnotizing_, his eyes like emeralds licked by flames.

_Why do you always _look_ at me like that?_

It used to be disconcerting to her, but now, she expects it, _wants_ it, **needs** him to look at her that way—because he's the only one that does, and, perhaps, the only one that ever _will._

And then he brings her hand to his lips, and gives it the barest of kisses—feather-light, sensual, _cold_—and her eyes close again.

"Until next time, Elsa."

Her eyes flutter open, but she can't see a thing—the room is dark, the fire snuffed out, and the warmth is gone.

_And so is he._

She can just make out the shape of her discarded glove, laying on the ground; she crouches down slowly, and gently picks it up, running her fingers over it, but suddenly she stops—because she can feel something like _ice_ on the surface of the silk.

Her face turns to the hearth, and that's when she sees them—a hundred tiny snowflakes, still clinging to the ash and burnt wood inside—and her blue eyes tighten, harden, _understand._

And so she stands again, her glove grasped tightly in her left hand, and in her right—there's nothing, except the remnants of herself.

_And a kiss._

She lifts her hand to her lips, and presses them against the same spot he had touched with his; but hers linger there, and they're _warm_ against her skin.

She pulls away after a minute, and her hand drops to her side again—but her gaze is still peering into the darkness, and she exhales a whisper that's burning in her throat.

"Until next time, _Hans."_

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End file.
